


Flying High

by De_Nugis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-28
Updated: 2011-07-28
Packaged: 2017-10-21 21:04:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/229835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/De_Nugis/pseuds/De_Nugis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Balthazar has a cunning plan. Sam has some strange ideas. Dean has a bad night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flying High

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt from the lovely Ancastar, who won this fic in help_japan. I'm sorry it's so late, and I hope you like it! Beta by the excellent Callisto.
> 
> This takes place some time between 6.20 and 6.21. However, it was plotted and partly written while things were evolving in late s6, and the respective roles of Castiel and Balthazar aren't one hundred percent canon compliant.

It’s hard to believe that there are that many Episcopalians in Shaker Heights, Ohio.

Dean doesn’t even appreciate the idea of cathedrals, real cathedrals, let alone suburban churches with delusions of cathedralhood. Churches with a profusion of aisles and chapels and statues and crypts and towers and, somewhere in the whole grandiose maze, fucking Balthazar feeding Sam angel blood.

Cas came and told him. Dean has to remind himself of that. Cas chose him and Sam over loyalty to his old friend and an outside chance of a new secret weapon in his war. He has to remind himself because he’s about an inch away from rewarding Cas’s gesture by finding out if he can strangle an angel.

“You got no idea where they are?” he asks, “Don’t you have, like, angeldar or something?”

Cas doesn’t ask what angeldar might be, which Dean takes as evidence of sanity and self-preservation.

“Sam is still concealed by the sigils I put in place. And the host has no means of tracking one another. But Balthazar will seek a high place for this.”

“Great,” mutters Dean. Facing off with an angel on a church tower, with Sam in God knows what shape, that sounds fun. He looks around, matching the internal layout of the church to what he saw outside. There was a high central tower at the back. It will be over where the altar and stuff are. Dean heads down the long, echoing central space and finds a door that leads to a curving corridor. It seems to be a kind of backstage area, with priest costumes on racks and piles of ragged, like, prayer books or hymnbooks or something. There’s an elevator, but it stays dark and silent when he jabs the buttons. Turned off with a key at night, probably, and that’s not a lock Dean knows how to pick. He tackles the door beside it instead. His picks slip and he curses under his breath. Cas is crowding at his shoulder.

“You must believe that I would not have consented to this,” Cas says, “And I do not believe it will work.”

“That _why_ you wouldn’t have consented, Cas?” Dean grunts.

Cas just looks back at him immovably. “I wouldn’t harm you, Dean. Or Sam.”

“Yeah, well, seeing as how your buddy Balthazar is currently dosing my brother up with angel blood cocktail in a scheme that has your other buddy Crowley’s greasy fingerprints all over it, I’m finding that a little hard to believe.”

Cas shakes his head. “Crowley is not involved in this. The last thing he would want is to make you or your brother potentially more dangerous. In any case, he and Balthazar are . . . not friends.”

“First I’ve heard of either of them showing any taste in friends,” says Dean. He doesn’t spare a glance over his shoulder to see if that registered. Anyway, that’s the point where the lock clicks and gives.

Dean looks up. Damn. The metal staircase inside the tower goes up and up, criss-crossing like a fire escape for what seems like a mile. If Balthazar is up there, there’s no way he won’t hear them coming. And he’s had Sam for hours. Dean’s not in the mood for trusting Cas, but it’s not a choice right now. He jerks his head up towards the top landing. “Could you . . .?” he says. Cas nods and touches his forehead and they’re there. Dean tries the knob of what must be the door to the roof. It’s not locked. He cracks it open, then swings it cautiously wider.

It opens on a flat, narrow space thickly daubed with blistered tar. They aren’t quite at the top, more on some balcony affair. There’s a balustrade supported by sad-looking gargoyles and guarded by one of those stupid plastic owls that are supposed to deter pigeons. The light above the door is strong and the place is lit like a stage, white chalk letters and symbols stark against the black. Balthazar looks right at home, dapper as a magician in something suspiciously close to a tuxedo. Dean almost expects a top hat.

“Dean,” says Balthazar, “Thank heavens. It’s about time.”

This is not the response Dean was expecting, but it’s not important.

“Where’s Sam, you fucking bastard? What have you done with my brother?” he spits out, but he sees Sam before he’s finished speaking. Sam is standing by the wall with his head tilted back, staring beatifically at a drainpipe. As Dean watches, Sam runs his hand down it, tracing its grooves to where it vanishes over the edge of the balustrade. His forehead knits in puzzlement and he traces the grooves laboriously up again.

“Sam?” says Dean, “You all right there?”

“In a second,” says Sam, “I want to see where all the lines are going. I can’t figure out how they know where to go. It’s amazing. They go up, too. Up and down. I don’t see how they can go both ways.”

Well, OK. Could be better, could be worse. Dean looks back at Balthazar, who shrugs.

“I couldn’t get any sense out of him either,” he says. “Or anything else useful. I try for a new power source, and I get Flower Power. You’ll just have to wait for it to wear off, I’m afraid. And I, if you will excuse me, will just have to move on to some less disappointing project.”

Dean sees a flicker out of the corner of his eye, like the shadows of wings. “Oh no you don’t, you son of a bitch,” he says, “You gave Sam blood. Tell me I’m not going to be cuffing him in the panic room again and listening to him scream. Cause if I am, I’m going to be thinking what I can do to you that’s worse.”

Balthazar looks unimpressed. Dean steps towards him, itching to mess up that pretentious, complacent face.

“I shouldn’t think so,” Balthazar says. There’s chalk on his sleeves. He brushes at it, frowning. “The properties are quite different. And his reactions, obviously. The experiment was never very likely to pan out, but it was worth a try.”

“I fail to see any worth in this,” says Cas, from behind Dean’s shoulder. Dean had almost forgotten he was there. Balthazar waves a hand dismissively.

“Come, brother,” he says, “You’d have been grateful if it had worked. Nobly regretful -- not as good a look on you as you think, by the way, you might want to lose it _and_ the trenchcoat -- but grateful. As it is, I’m afraid all we’ve got is one oversize Winchester tripping on a church tower. Seems like a job for your other boyfriend.” He takes Cas’s arm, like some dude in a costume drama about to propose a stroll in the park. “I suggest we leave them to it.”

“You forfeited the trust of our friends and achieved nothing.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” says Balthazar, “There’s always the recreational potential. Though if it only works on demonblood-primed Lucifer vessels the street value will be limited. Definitely the most fun your Sam’s had since his friends shoved his soul back in, though.”

Dean glances over at Sam. Sam gives him a goofy grin. He’s given up on the drainpipe and now he’s half-sprawled on his back, examining the gargoyles that hold up the balustrade. The bitch of it is, Balthazar’s got a point. Happiest look Dean’s seen on Sam in years, not just since the resouling. Maybe since the hellhounds came for Dean. Dean takes Balthazar by his stupid narrow lapels and shoves him up against the wall. Balthazar just raises his eyebrows.

“You going to kill him, Cas?” Dean asks over his shoulder, “Cause I’m happy to do the honors if you don’t want to.” Not that he has an angel sword or anything.

Cas doesn’t say anything, but he moves to stand in front of Balthazar, giving him one of those smoldering stares he does so well. Balthazar leans back a bit, shifting against Dean’s grip but looking perfectly at ease.

“Really, Cas?” he says, “Me? Your friend, your brother? Sam’s fine. Give him an hour or so and he’ll be back to his saturnine melancholy. There’s no call for drama.”

“You couldn’t have known that,” Cas says. “Or you would not have made the attempt. In future, do not try experiments without my leave. And do not involve the Winchesters.”

“Unless we need them to distract Raphael’s assassins? Right. Fine. That’s leaving aside ‘your leave’ and the question of who died and made you Daddy.”

Balthazar sounds genuinely pissed now. Dean could almost think he was hurt. Not that the fucker doesn’t deserve to have his feelings bruised. Cas’s face is stony. He turns from Balthazar, addresses Dean.

“I could not kill him if I wanted to. I need his help. It seems unlikely, as things stand, that I will have yours. But I apologize for his actions. This won’t happen again.”

Dean grits his teeth. It’s not worth making any points about who has been letting down whom here.

“Just get out, Cas,” he says. “Both of you. I can take it from here.”

Cas hesitates for a moment. Then he and Balthazar vanish in a wingclap of air.

“They flew away,” says Sam. “Did you see that, Dean? Those guys just flew away. I saw their wings.”

At least Sam recognizes him, even if he’s not so clear on how half their social circle are angels. Dean comes over and crouches next to him, turning his face to the light, trying to get a look at his eyes. They’re not black. The opposite, actually; the pupils are shrunk almost to pinpricks.

“How’re you feeling?” he asks. Sam blinks at him, leaning his head back against the gargoyle’s lolling stone tongue. “He’s licking me,” he says, and honest to God giggles. “Did you know he can talk?”

“You ready to head out of here?” Dean asks, but Sam’s not listening. Too busy with his new friend.

“I think we should adopt him. He could be useful on hunts. Or, I know what we should do, we should give him to Bobby. He hasn’t got a dog any more. That’s not right. A dog is Bobby’s best friend.” Sam pats the thing on the head approvingly.

“Dude, that’s not a dog, it’s a stone gargoyle,” says Dean. “We can’t take it with us.”

“Why not? I mean, the talking thing’s weird for a dog. Or maybe he’s a lion, I can’t tell. I can’t see his tail. But Bobby will be cool with that. He’s not a monster, Dean.” Sam’s got the soulful look his stony pet can’t quite manage down pat. He tugs at Dean’s sleeve, like he used to when he was four. “Bobby can teach him languages.”

“It’s part of the building, Sam. It can’t move.” Figures that even stoned Sam will never let go of an argument. Lawyer Sam would have been fucking terrifying.

“Well, we can’t just leave him here. What if it rains? Aren’t we supposed to be saving things?”

They haven’t been doing much of that lately. Maybe saving statues from inclement weather would be more their speed. Still not going to happen. Dean gives Sam’s arm a tug. Sam doesn’t budge.

“It’s fine here, this is where it lives. Come on, Sam. We’ve got a lot of stairs to get down. Statues don’t go down stairs.”

“Maybe we could fly, like those other guys. I think the dog can fly. He has wings.”

It does, in fact. Ugly ass bat wings.

“But we don’t,” says Dean.

“Hey, we might. Sometimes I do. I’ve been a lot of things. Like that guy in the Welsh poems. Taliesin. Some of them had wings. I couldn’t use them, before, you know. I wasn’t allowed to use his things. But maybe these are mine and I can just, like, let them work. We should try.”

Before Dean has time to react Sam’s scrambled up onto the balustrade, kneeling to peer interestedly down at the cozy houses and dark trees stretching into suburban distance three hundred feet below. He’s weaving a little. His hand rests on the wall beside him, far too casual. Dean’s tightens reflexively around the damn gargoyle, like he could grip for both of them.

“What the hell are you doing, Sam?” Dean makes to stand up, grab Sam and haul him back, but Sam jerks away and Dean freezes. One unguarded movement, and Sam will be over. Dean can’t reach him. If he tries to stop Sam falling Sam’s going to fall. Dean inches back, instead. It’s a candidate for hardest thing he’s done. Lately, at least.

“Sam,” he says, “Come back down here, OK? Let’s have a look at the dog. Maybe we can rig some kind of leash.” If he can get Sam back on solid ground he’s clipping him on the jaw and _carrying_ him off this fucking tower, like a goddamn fireman. The adrenaline rush he’s got going right now, he’s pretty sure he can do it.

Sam’s expression goes all indulgent and reasonable, like Dean’s the one being irrational here.

“I know you don’t like flying,” he says, “But statistically it’s the safest way to travel. And anyway, it’s the plane part that bothers you, right? So this should be fine.” He gestures, almost lurches forward, rights himself. Dean’s heart stops. “See? No plane.”

Dean would give large sums of money to be on a plane right now, which just goes to show how crappy his life is.

“Pretty sure that statistically jumping off church towers is the least safe way to travel,” he says. “Sam. Please. Get down. It’s dangerous. Anyway, you look ridiculous there. You’re too big to perch.”

“It can’t be dangerous,” says Sam. “The lines all went this way. Down must be right. I’m sure I’ve got it right this time. All the lines lead there.” He looks down again, like gravity’s pulling his gaze towards the ground.

“You _can’t fly_ , Sam.”

Sam turns his head back towards Dean. The last of the goofy high is gone, but he’s not back with the program. His head has gone someplace else. His face is bleak and perfectly calm.

“I don’t have to fly,” he says, “I just have to fall.”

There’s an underlying vertigo that’s been part of Dean’s thought processes since he’d leaned his ringing head against the car and watched through the blood trickling into his eyes while Sam took the dive into hell. Now it’s got him again. He can’t speak. Like last time.

“I have the devil in me,” Sam says, “I have to fall.”

And suddenly Dean can move, and he does. He doesn’t grab Sam, that’s the wrong thing, that won’t work. Sam won’t let Dean hold him back, that’s not how he’s going to get through. But he comes as close as he can, right under where Sam is poised to fall away from the world again. Words are tumbling out of Dean and Sam’s eyes are fixed on his mouth, puzzled, like he’s halfway down already, but he’s trying to hear.

“You don’t. You don’t any more. He’s gone. You got him locked down, and you’re back. You’re back now. You’re OK. You’ve got to come down, Sam. Please.”

“Dean?” says Sam, like he’s not sure.

“Yeah,” says Dean. “Sammy, please.” And he holds out his hand. Sam reaches for him. Dean grasps his wrist and pulls, and Sam goes with it, falls onto Dean, knocking him sprawling with Sam’s huge, breathing, fucking glorious sasquatch weight crushing the air from his lungs.

“Jesus,” says Dean, “Sam.”

Sam’s fingers ghost over Dean’s face, tracing his eyebrows, his lips. He leans his forehead against Dean’s, breathes warmly on Dean’s mouth. “’m here,” he says.

By the time Dean gets Sam to his feet he’s groggy and out of it, doesn’t seem to have much idea what’s going on. But he can walk, after a fashion. They have to rest three times on the way down the stairs, Sam listing against Dean, Dean clutching him with a death grip because after all that he is not, he is NOT letting Sam take a header down a flight of stairs. But they make it to the bottom and out of the church of friggin’ St Jude.

Sam stumbles down the steps from the massive front doors, swerves towards a sad patch of shrubbery, and throws up. When he’s done he sits back on his heels and looks around. His hair is hanging in his eyes in sweaty tendrils and he’s a bit green about the gills, but his eyes are clear.

“What the hell happened?” he asks.

Dean’s leaning against the stair railing, still kind of shaking. He glares at his brother.

“You tried to jump off a fucking church tower, Sam, that’s what happened,” he says At least, that’s the essential point.

Sam gapes up at the tower.

“I tried to jump off a tower?” he says, “Why? What are we even doing here? And where is here? Last I remember I was in a motel room in Bumfuck, Ohio, watching a documentary on the mysterious world of the lobster.”

Dean figures there will be a time and a place to talk to Sam about his TV choices. Here and now isn’t it.

“Cause you were high as a kite,” he says. He’s not mentioning the devil-in-me shit. He’s trying to not even think about the devil-in-me shit. “Far’s I can tell, that crazy asshole Balthazar got a mad scientist complex and tried to turn you into some superhero secret weapon by dosing you with angel blood. It didn’t work. Cas tipped me off,” Dean adds, grudgingly. Because he’s still not exactly happy with Cas, Cas and his lies and his demon alliance and his skeezy friend, but Sam’s here, and if it weren’t for Cas he might not be.

Sam scrambles to his feet, wiping a sleeve across his mouth. He looks sicker than when he was puking into the shrubbery.

“Blood?” he says, “I drank blood? Fuck. Damn it. Fuck. How long ago? Do we have time to get to Bobby’s? You’re going to have to lock me down again.”

“Hey, it’s OK,” says Dean. “Angel blood, dude. It’s completely different.”

“You sure of that? How can you be sure?” Sam looks suspicious and hopeful.

Dean’s as sure as he needs to be, for both of them. He smirks at Sam.

“Balthazar said so,” he says. “Anyway, I’ve seen you do a lot of things on bitch blood, but trying to take home a stone gargoyle to squeeze and hug and call George isn’t one of them.”

“A . . what?” Sam says. His rubs his forehead in confusion. It’s kind of adorable. Adorable is another thing demon blood Sam wasn’t. Dean’s actually buying his own reassurances here.

“Look,” he says, “We’ll drive in Bobby’s direction anyway, but I think you’re good. You just let me know if you start feeling funny or something.”

Sam nods, provisionally accepting, and follows Dean to the car.

“You want some Tylenol or Pepto or anything?” Dean asks, pausing at the trunk.

Sam shakes his head. “Coffee,” he says decisively, “Gallons of coffee.”

“Your wish is my command, princess,” says Dean.

He turns into the first McDonald’s drive-through they pass and gets them both giant coffees. Sam takes two sips of his and falls asleep before they leave the last outskirts of Cleveland. His breathing is even and quiet, no twitches, no nightmares, and Dean begins to relax. He points the car towards South Dakota, but there’s no hurry, they’re not headed for the panic room, not this time. He just wants to keep driving.

By the time they’ve been on the road three or four hours Dean’s brain is buzzing with caffeine and sleeplessness and the aftermath of adrenaline. It’s almost morning. Sam hasn’t stirred, even when Dean stopped for gas. Now he pulls up in one of those half-circle parking areas that don’t even have bathrooms. The Impala is the only car there. He shuts off the engine and half-twists in the driver’s seat to stare at Sam.

Sam used to look like a kid when he slept. Even the year he was running around with Ruby, working on getting revenge and destroying the world. These days he looks every one of his two hundred odd years. Doesn’t stop Dean having these totally inappropriate urges to wrap him in a fleecy blanket, like when he was two, wedged against Dean in the back seat. Several blankets. Real tight, so he can’t climb onto any fucking ledges. Or maybe Dean could invest in a gigantic Sam-sized carseat. One of those ones you need an engineering degree to jigger. With straps. Lots of straps.

Dean’s brain stalls out halfway between scary overprotective infantilizing and bondage. Whoa. It’s probably a good thing that Sam chooses that moment to wake up. He scrunches up his eyes before opening them, and the two hundred year old man is gone, replaced by Sammy. Then he stretches and reaches blindly for his long-cold coffee, takes a slug, and looks around, registering Dean and the stopped car and the parking area.

“You want me to drive for a bit while you get some sleep?” he asks.

Like that’s happening.

“Dude, you just tried to jump off a tall building while under the influence,” says Dean, “You are driving my car again, like, never.”

Sam’s eyebrows somehow go up and pull together simultaneously. Spock only wishes he could do that.

“So, what, you just pulled into a lay-by so you could stare creepily at me while I slept?” he asks.

Yeah, pretty much.

“In your dreams,” Dean says. He climbs out – he could stand to stretch his legs – and Sam follows him wordlessly, leans against the car beside him. It’s starting to get light, a colorless thinning of the air, and he can see Sam’s hair flattened from where he was sleeping against the window, the lines on his forehead, headache or worry, almost a permanent fixture these days. Except when he’s been downing Balthazar’s magic cocktail, of course. Or when he’s missing his soul. Dean’s still not back to being used to it, how different the stubborn line of Sam’s jaw and the warm bulk of his body feel when there’s _Sam_ in there.

Four, five inches, a bit of loose mortar, Dean just not getting through, and Sam could’ve slipped out of his grasp again, could have been jelly on the pavement. The lurch of Dean’s stomach mixes uneasily with a surge of lust. He wants to grip Sam tight, he wants to pin him against the car or to the solid ground and fuck him, he wants to be in there, deep in with Sam’s intact flesh and his unbroken bones and his breathing soul.

“Sam,” he says. Sam turns to look at him.

They’ve stayed away from sex since Sam got back. First the soulless sociopath thing, and Dean still trying to work things out with Lisa, to have that other life that, yeah, he also wants, and isn’t that a bitch. And Sam hasn’t made a move to pick up that particular thread since he got his soul back. Dean’s not about to bring it up. Sam’s got enough to deal with. But high Sam had run his fingers over Dean’s face, breathed into his lips, and maybe it’s not what Dean figured. Maybe it’s not that Sam doesn’t want this now, it’s just that he’s thinking something stupid, like that Dean looks at him and sees his T1000 doppelganger.

“You gotta say if you want me to not do this,” Dean says, and brackets Sam’s face with his hands. Sam looks startled, but he doesn’t say anything. Dean kisses him gently, a chaste, dry press of his lips, thumbs brushing along Sam’s jaw. “Sammy?” Dean asks.

“It’s OK, Dean,” Sam says, but his eyes slide away, and Dean feels the quick rise and fall of his chest. Dean drops his hands to his side.

“You don’t want to,” he says.

Sam looks guilty. Sheesh.

“It’s not you, Dean, I swear it’s not you,” he says. “It’s. . . I can’t. Sex. Even when I . . .” he trails off, honest to God blushing. Only Sam could fuck a demon and suck her blood for a year, not to mention the whole on and off incest thing, and still get prudish mentioning jerking off.

“What, Sam?” says Dean, trying not to push, not to panic. Not like he’s altogether surprised. He remembers hell, the stuff that happens there. He remembers what it was like when he first got back. But Sam’s not supposed to remember. If the cage is bleeding through again, they’ve got trouble. And if something like that happened to Sam, even if Sam doesn’t know it, and Dean’s just put pressure on him, fuck. The thought makes Dean queasy.

Sam’s eyeing him sidelong. He touches Dean’s shoulder, a reassuring brush like he does lately, like Dean’s the one needs support.

“Stop looking like that,” he says, “It’s not what you’re thinking. It’s not a big deal. It’s stupid, it’s just,” he swallows, looks away. “It feels like letting go. Sex. It feels like falling.”

Like the bottomless drop that Sam had said yes to. Dean forgets, sometimes, that there’s stuff the wall doesn’t try to shut out. Tonight’s been a pretty fucking effective reminder.

“You remember that part,” he says. They’ve got to be careful. Sam’s memories are fuses. The whole wall is mined.

“It’s the last thing,” says Sam. His voice is quiet and flat. “Falling. I don’t remember hitting the bottom.”

There’s nothing to say to that. After a few long minutes of silence Dean nudges his shoulder against Sam’s, carefully undemanding. Sam leans imperceptibly closer in turn. The warmth of him seeps gradually through Dean’s jacket. The sun is coming up.

This is them. They’re OK. Yeah, his brother was possessed by the devil and fell into hell and has consequently developed a fear of orgasms and won’t have sex with him, but it’s not the end of the world. They’ll deal. It’s almost comforting, the exact kind of fucked in the head Sam _would_ come up with. Things could have been so much worse. Will be, probably. Dean shakes that thought off.

Evidently Sam’s mind is moving on a different track, what with him being a moron and all, because his face has gone brooding and wretched.

“I know it’s stupid,” he says. His lips twist mirthlessly. “Guess I’ve got issues, huh? Sorry. You shouldn’t be stuck with them. I’m sorry.”

And that’s one sorry too goddamned many. Next thing he knows Dean’s got Sam up against the car and he’s in his face, literally, staring him down – up, whatever, it’s not Dean’s fault Sam is goddamn Fezzik -- and spitting out words in a fine spray against his skin. Funny. He’s not even aware of being angry, of tapping into this. It comes out like it’s someone else speaking, but it’s not. It’s him, all right, and Sam needs to hear this.

“Listen up, Sammy, cause I’m only going to say it once. You’ve done some things in your time needed apologizing for. Other stuff, it may not be your fault, but I get why you can’t let it go. But this you do not get to do. You do not apologize, ever, for damage you took caging Lucifer.” And he shakes Sam a bit, for emphasis.

Sam’s frozen against the car, shocked and indignant, like Dean yelled at him, which, yeah, technically he did. And like he doesn’t know where it came from, which makes two of them. But then seems some of the rusty gears in his brain, in the ten percent of his headspace he can spare from his fucking guilt complex, manage to creak through a sluggish half turn. His shoulders straighten, and he tilts his head at Dean with the trace of a smile.

“Even if it means less sex for you?” he asks “Cause, dude, that’s pretty serious, depriving you of sex.” Dean gives him one more bracing shake, lets go and backs off a bit.

“Yeah, well, the universe owes me an apology for that one. But you don’t.” Because he’s got the essential thing. He doesn’t give a flying fuck if all the terms aren’t perfect.

“I’m sure the universe is very contrite,” says Sam.

Dean opens the driver’s door.

“Get your ass in the car, Sam,” he says, “If I’m not getting laid then the least you can do is buy me a greasy breakfast.”

Sam stomps around the car, every step solid earth, and settles in beside Dean. Gravity can do the right thing for once and work on keeping him there. If the universe wants to, you know, pay up on its debt or something.


End file.
